


Strings attached

by hongmunmu



Series: A serpent in the rice [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: ANBU root - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, Pre-Canon, Sannin Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 14:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13296834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: Orochimaru joins Root, for the sake of a mutually beneficial, mutually distasteful arrangement.





	Strings attached

**Author's Note:**

> prequel to unbelonging, but they can be read in any order.

Infilitrating Root. A stellar idea. 

It had all seemed quite sensible and appealing one or two hours prior with a fair bit of sake in his system, but now, ankle-deep in watchmen and security seals, Orochimaru couldn’t help but wish he’d planned this escapade a little better. Frankly, though, it was too late to retreat— especially given he wasn’t too far from the vault now. All he needs is to wait for the sedative gas to knock out that guard around the corner, and he should have a clear shot at the seals. Or so he hopes. 

He shouldn’t even have to go to this sort of length. Forbidden jutsu, his foot; he knows for a fact there are shinobi in this godforsaken village that use said jutsu, and he sees no damn reason why he shouldn’t be one of them. If you already have a staff, there’s no reason not to sharpen the tips. But, Orochimaru supposes, it would snow in August before the council of elders ever saw things from their soldiers’ point of view. 

A thump in the corridor tells him it’s time. In seconds he’s stalked through the clearing and cleared the first gate using a key off the unconscious guard’s belt; in minutes, he’s dispelled most of the seals. The last one, he, for lack of a better phrase, slightly fucks up— a small explosion and a flurry of kunai escape from one of the nodules, and while Orochimaru easily evades the attack, he can’t say the same for the noise. Orochimaru typically doesn’t make a habit of cursing, but he allows himself some leeway in that precise moment, because if there was ever a time to hiss the word ‘fuck’, it was now. 

_ Nice going, clumsy,  _ Tsunade remarks from inside his brain. Orochimaru, who’s never been one to ignore Tsunade’s sage counsel, wastes no time; he darts through the slightly damaged doors, and is met with a sight that stops him stone-dead. 

One scroll. 

Hundreds of rows of shelves, receding into the dark and dim of this unlit room, and naught but one, pathetic, tiny little scroll, fallen to the floor. It feels like a slap to the face accompanied by a stab in the gut, if honesty is a factor, but again: there’s no time. Regardless of the inexplicable emptiness of the room, or the fact that Orochimaru swears he can hear a faint buzzing noise, he is still faced with the pressing matter of getting home as soon as possible. He seizes the scroll, briefly flicking it open to check that this isn’t a wind-up; thankfully, there is a saving grace, as the paper is chock-full of technical jargon that he’s not in the mind to decipher right now. One kinjutsu, albeit not the one he was hoping for, was better than nothing; he could research into why the shelves of the vault were so hatefully barren once he got out of this pit. Which, incidentally, was an issue that demanded his immediate attention; as he rises to his feet, he already catches in his peripheral vision a figure blocking the dim light out of the doorway. 

“Orochimaru of the Sannin,” comes a male baritone, and the accused turns to face the speaker. The shinobi was, naturally, masked; he doesn’t look particularly challenging, but then, Orochimaru supposes, appearances are often deceiving. 

“Let me pass, forget you saw me, and you may keep your life,” Orochimaru says simply, pocketing the scroll. The ANBU lets out a quiet noise that could be described as a snort. 

“I think not.”

There’s a beat, tension in the air thick as a knife, before the masked man’s hand moves to the hilt of his tanto— Orochimaru would have smirked as he begins to weave hand signs, but an odd feeling like a stone in his shoe stops his confidence stone dead. The air in the room seems to have simply blackened, and the buzzing he thought he heard when he first entered has intensified beyond doubt; in a sudden feeling of horrified recognition, he turns away from the masked ANBU to the shelves behind him. 

All at once, a black curtain seems to materialise and dissipate from the rows upon rows of shelves, flying off them like dust blown off an old book, and Orochimaru sees that, in fact, the shelves are not empty. They’re full. Stacks and stacks of scrolls, ranging from metres in size to less than his pinky finger; lining every shelf from in front of him to the very dregs of his vision. Bugs. A genjutsu built on a filthy blanketing of bugs. 

Orochimaru immediately turns back to face his attacker, but it’s too late; the shinobi, who he can without a doubt pin as an Aburame, has already had the element of surprise, and is inches from his face; his fist solidly colliding with Orochimaru’s jugular. The air is knocked out of him, and he’s sent crashing backwards across the room, only coming to a halt as his head makes contact with one of the shelves. The Aburame doesn’t stop there; while he doesn’t move, the flies have mobilised into two swarms, and shoot at Orochimaru like darts; the best he can do is one substitution followed by a blast of wind, blowing the bugs and their user back, out of the vault and into the clearing. Before following Orochimaru slices open his palm and slams it on the ground, summoning three loyal boas to scout ahead; one to occupy each foe while he gathers his bearings. 

Of course, it is just his luck that he’d be apprehended by an Aburame. Tatsuma, if he had to put money on it. He’d been wondering where that one had got to. Bugs always vanished and reappeared when you least wanted them to. Stubborn little things. 

His irrational hatred of insects isn’t in any way helped when a third cloud of them descends from behind; how in hell were you supposed to fight the things without fire? The closest Orochimaru can get to fire release at present is an exploding tag, so he settles for that, rolling sideways as he throws it to dodge a blast of chakra from Tatsuma. Three shuriken and a wind blade later, he’s behind his opponent with a kunai to his throat. Ultimately, not much of a challenge. 

“I’ll say it again,” he murmurs, mouth beside Tatsuma’s ear. “You saw nothing, and you keep your life.” 

Orochimaru feels a rise of air in his opponent’s chest indicating he’s about to speak, and smirks before a sudden slash against his back knocks the air out of them both; he feels the skin rip underneath his kimono shirt in what could only be a master wind-cutter technique, and falls to his knees. Tatsuma, who was shielded from the brunt of the gale force by Orochimaru, is quick to respond, and within minutes has his fell cloud of bugs back and functioning above them while he seizes Orochimaru’s wrist. Before them, a steady tap of wood against stone heralds the arrival of only one person. 

Shimura Danzo.

Keeping him firmly immobilised by way of a twisted arm, Orochimaru’s assailant pushes him to his knees, pulling his head back by his hair to let the elder see his face.  “Danzo-sama. I found this intruder stealing forbidden scrolls from your personal quarters, and apprehended him.” 

Danzo smiles sickeningly, not at the news but in recognition. 

“Well, well. If it isn’t Hiruzen’s favourite pupil … and one of the Sannin, no less. I don’t believe I ever had the opportunity to congratulate you on your new title, Orochimaru-kun.”

“Save your breath,” Orochimaru spits. “Surviving while your kin die is no feat to be applauded. Not that I suppose you’d agree— you excel at it.”

The ANBU holding Orochimaru yanks at his hair, tightening his grip in fury.  “Hold your tongue and show Lord Danzo some respect!”

“Tatsuma, that’s enough. Release him.”

“But Lord Danzo—”

“ _ Enough, _ I said.” Danzo turns his attention from the ANBU, eyes fixated on Orochimaru’s burning glare. “Rise, boy. Come. Let us talk in my office. Tatsuma, you may escort us, and then you are dismissed.”

_ I have no desire to talk with you, _ Orochimaru thinks, but stays silent as Tatsuma reluctantly releases him with what the former’s sure is a warning glower. Danzo has already turned, walking stick tapping obnoxiously on the cold stone, and Orochimaru has little choice but to follow.

When they reach the blocky little room Danzo calls an office and Orochimaru’s entered at the former’s behest, Tatsuma bows and leaves them in a cloud of dust. The door clicks shut ominously, and without warning, Danzo seizes Orochimaru's wrist, lifting it to view the scroll that was stolen.

“So, kinjutsu, Orochimaru-kun? Research project gone too far, is it?” 

“Do not patronise me,” Orochimaru spits. “Any  _ one _ of the scrolls in that vault will contain more knowledge than there is in all the heads up there put together, and instead of using them, you elders let them rot in vaults while you cower behind your teacups. I have seen countless shinobi die because of insufficient fire on our side, and all the while the people who are supposed to be protecting them sit on mounds of power like misers.” 

“A passionately delivered speech, but I assure you, Orochimaru-kun, these techniques are not banned through any will of mine. I understand your point of view better than anyone, in fact. If you find fault in the way things are, I suggest you'd take it up with the one responsible— your beloved teacher. Perhaps he’d be more likely to listen to a young voice like yours.” 

Orochimaru scoffs. “Sarutobi-sensei has avoided me for years in favour of his council. If he doesn’t listen to them, I doubt he would listen to anyone, least of all me.” 

Danzo hums, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise, and he takes a seat at his desk contemplatively. “Quite the set of opinions you’ve got on you, boy. I’ll admit, I’m impressed that an old fuddy-duddy like Hiruzen would raise such a radical.”

“Sarutobi did not _ raise  _ me,” Orochimaru retorts almost immediately, offence visible. His parents had raised him, and they were dead. Sarutobi had given him a glorified shoebox to live in and taught him how to throw a knife. There was a difference. “Enough flattery, old man. Why have you not turned me in? Surely you’d regain some standing with the council were you to arrest me for breaking their rules.”

“I’m not going to turn you in.” 

When Orochimaru stares in confusion Danzo sighs wearily, rifling through the drawers in his desk for something. “You and I are of one mind, I believe, Orochimaru-kun. What your sensei doesn't realise is that we _ need  _ shinobi like you. Shinobi with the village’s best interests at heart, unafraid of going to  _ any _ lengths to protect it. Our society is not built on petty friendships and idealism, as Hiruzen would have everyone believe… it’s built on tradition, practicality, blood ties, loyalty not to individuals but to the future. Values I think you understand.” 

“Do not compare me to you. I couldn’t care less for your institutions or the village they’re built on, old man. I care for the individuals who throw their lives away fighting wars they had no part in creating, brainwashed by hasbeens like the council of elders.” 

“Let’s not mince words, Orochimaru. Whatever the details of your motivations, I think we can both agree that in the war effort, you’re better suited to my methods than Hiruzen’s.” 

“Speak plainly. What are you proposing?”

“Join Root. I know you have potential, a talent that cowards like Hiruzen would never let you pursue. You don't belong up there with the fodder, the warm bodies thrown at the enemy to buy time. You should be here, working on bigger things— you see past the petty squabbles of world conflict.”

“I have no interest in making the weapons of mass destruction you so clearly desire, old man. Nor will I become one.”

“And what of your research into immortality? Lord Second's lost kinjutsu? I could give you all the facilities you needed and more. Under Root’s protection, you can work in peace for the good of the village without worrying about petty laws and restrictions. Hiruzen never need know.”

Orochimaru’s slitted eyes narrow in doubt. “And what of you? I doubt you offer this out of the kindness of your heart. I will not be bribed into taking the fall for you.”

“I don’t think we need to squabble over future issues like that, Orochimaru— issues like that are piecemeal given the circumstances. This is war. You're no simple soldier—you know just as well as I do that this is where you should be. We're both intelligent men.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. 

“I'm leaving,” Orochimaru announces, turning for the door. Danzo keeps talking. 

“Sleep on it, boy. I can wait for your answer.” Though his back is turned, Orochimaru can tell Danzo is smirking, the words bouncing off him as he walks away. “Keep the scroll. I know you’ll make the right choice.” 

Orochimaru shuddered as he left the hidden compound, and as his fingers tightened around the kinjutsu scroll, he could practically feel the metaphorical strings attached.

 

* * *

He gives in.

Of course he does. It wasn’t like it was a question of  _ if,  _ it was  _ when.  _

“Open your mouth,” Danzo instructs matter-of-factly, sanitising his hands. A dish of black ink rests on the table nearby, next to an open scroll bearing a series of seals. In his left hand the old man holds a stencil-like print, the transfer paper bearing the design for a seal Orochimaru has since noticed on the tongues of several ANBU. Gods, how degrading. It was like being branded.

“I am hardly likely to leak information given my situation,” the Sannin argues with a twinge of annoyance, but he complies to the instruction, jaw stretched wide. Danzo doesn’t respond immediately, focused on placing the transfer correctly. 

“It’s simply a uniform precaution, nothing personal. Traitors aside, even the most disciplined and resistant of shinobi can become a security risk if they fall prey genjutsu or mind-transfer techniques. This way we can be certain that there is no way for information to be leaked, willingly or unwillingly.” He holds the paper down for a few seconds then quickly rips it away, leaving a faint print of the seal design on Orochimaru’s tongue. “Good. Now hold very still.” 

The tip of his right thumb glowing with a surge of chakra, Danzo dips it once into the dish of ink, before pressing it firmly against the mark made at the back of Orochimaru’s tongue; holding it in place by way of using his other fingers to grip Orochimaru’s jawline. There’s a feeling of numbing heat not unlike the scald of drinking tea that’s too hot; Danzo’s hand glows as he recites the the seal incantation. Bending to the old man’s chakra patterns, the ink sinks into the pattern left by the transfer as if possessed, leaving behind a perfect seal. Danzo doesn’t retract his hand immediately, checking his work with a look of smug satisfaction, before meeting Orochimaru’s eyes. Not breaking eye contact, he cleans his hand of excess saliva by unceremoniously wiping his thumb and back of his hand against Orochimaru’s cheek, smearing a trail of spit on the white skin. It’s in that moment precisely, and not a second before or after, that Orochimaru vows to ensure this man dies a very painful and humiliating death.  _ You withered, foul old coot,  _ he thinks. 

The palpable tension in the air is left to fester in the silence for a minute or two more, Danzo cleaning the remaining ink and saliva off his hands in the sink while Orochimaru inelegantly wipes Danzo’s little signature off his face with his sleeve. 

“Congratulations,” the geezer says at last, retrieving his walking stick from where it rests against one wall. “You’re now an official member of ANBU Root. Avoid irritating your mouth for a day or two, so the seal can heal properly. When the time comes, I’ll contact you for briefing.” 

With that, Danzo hobbles off, the stick’s infuriating  _ tap-tap-tap  _ punctuating his words. Orochimaru adds snapping the walking stick in half over his knee to his to-do list, and gets to his feet, moving to view his seal in the mirror hanging over the wall-wide sink. It’s not  _ ugly, _ at least, and wouldn’t look too out of place along the rest of his tattoos, but even so— it was still mildly humiliating. He soothes his wounded pride with the assurance that at least it was a practical seal, not just for decoration. He can’t quite silence the little parody of Tsunade’s voice in his head telling him he’s just made a pact with the devil.

_ As if. _ Calling Danzo the devil was giving him far too much credit. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are always welcome if you enjoyed my fic. bookmark the series if you're interested in more works centering on orochimaru's life!


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